Anne Smic

"0IL SPILL: Skulking low in greasy places, liars speaking truths obscene..."

Below poem reproduced in printable form:

OIL SPILL by Anne Simic
When we arrived demented clowns

skulking low in greasy places

liars speaking truths obscene

to foetid smell of smoking screen

mouths malodorous, filthy sounds

weasel words from blackened faces

naughty children, fat and frightened

await their spanking, bodies tightened.

When we left our unplugged frowns

spread faecal spill in every space

venting all our ruptured spleen

hubris for what might have been

engulfing all the seas and towns

werewolves killing our own traces

voices of dissent were quietened

death of everything was heightened.

Ann Simic

out Yapeen way in the old pub

long converted to a cottage

I've been looking again for the moon

in the window at night

like last year

every night

no moon

instead the voices of

gold rushers filling the dark

slaking dusty throats

sharing exaggerations

a well-turned ankle disappearing

into a back room

the Jaara people

unseen keeping watch

all-seeing

quizzing the drink

the music

the people

there's old Joe in the corner

with squeeze box

fit to beat the band

dancing the well-worn songs

Mary crying for old Ireland

on this hushed and moonless night

NOTES

Wednesday January 25 2012: voices